The Escape
by Badgergater
Summary: Sequel to S4 finale episode YHWH: In the midst of a desperate crisis, the team receives help from an unexpected source


The Escape

By Badgergater

Sequel to the S4 finale YHWH

Summary: In the midst of a desperate crisis, the team receives help from an unexpected source

 _ **Important Author's Note**_ : This is where my muse took me, without asking my permission if it was a good or wise place to go. Then again, the writers of POI didn't ask my permission for making this canon or creating the characters who appear in it. Please do read all the way to the end before deciding what you think of this story. Thanks.

Written before seeing any S5 spoilers

And as always, thank you to my beta, Scully, and to Corine for introducing me to POI.

 _POI POI POI POI_

Reese on one side, Root on the other, Finch in the safe spot in the middle.

That's how they walked out to the street, away from the electrical substation with John wielding one submachine gun, Ms. Groves firing the other, and Harold carrying the precious briefcase.

Reese's weapon chattered in short bursts of controlled yet sporadic gunfire, walking the line between the need to conserve the limited ammo and the equally important need to keep Samaritan's wave of newly arrived reinforcements off-balance. Between he and Root, the staccato volley of bullets pierced the surrounding darkness, sending lead ricocheting off cars and light posts and concrete curbs like deadly fireflies.

Their attackers had to keep ducking back.

And that offered them their one chance at escape, thin as it was.

Intermittent return fire came back at them out of the darkness from the new attackers - this bunch seemed to be more cautious than the others. Of course, they'd had front row seats to the carnage Reese could create with his weapons expertise. The street was littered with his victims - their wounded, maybe dying comrades all the evidence they needed of the deadly abilities of the unknown man in the suit.

Of course, Samaritan's forces didn't know Reese was handicapped now, that his guiding voice had gone silent. He no longer had the God mode link to all the electronic knowledge that had been aiding him. No more feeds from surveillance cameras and traceable phone connections and GPS signals, the myriad sources of information the machine had used to provide John with his foes' locations or point out their vulnerabilities. Finch's remarkable creation was contained now, crippled if not killed by Samaritan's vicious onslaught. Good thing their enemies didn't know, Reese thought, or the attackers could bull rush them and it would be all over in a few short bloody seconds.

What your enemies didn't know was your advantage, maybe a big one.

Maybe even enough to save you.

John continued walking briskly, gauging his speed by how quickly he knew Harold's damaged body could proceed. That was faster than one might have expected from his awkward gait - at least for a short distance - evidence of Harold's determination overcoming his physical limitations.

Samaritan's forces had learned expensive lessons tonight and they were warier now, unenthusiastic to rush the fleeing trio, reluctant to expose themselves - unwilling to die.

Or maybe it was just that the gung ho dumb ones were down for the count and only the smarter ones were left - hardly a comforting thought.

The Man in the Suit stayed in the forefront, shielding the others with his own body as he led them down the sidewalk, past the parked cars, proceeding in a direct line toward his own vehicle. It was a tactical decision on his part, opting to cover the shortest distance - totally focused on the objective of reaching the car he'd parked just down the street. It hadn't seemed so far away when he'd left it there in what had been a dark and quiet location. But now –- now it seemed miles distant, an unreachable distance in their present predicament.

But John Reese was not a man easily dissuaded from his objective. Special Forces and the CIA didn't recruit men who weren't able to hold their focus, who lacked the capacity to make split second decisions, or failed to achieve their assigned objective no matter what unexpected difficulties popped up and seemed insurmountable to ordinary men. Tonight his mission was to get his boss, and the precious cargo Finch carried, to safety.

He would not allow himself to fail.

A bullet whipped past John's ear, so close he felt the air compress around it. Another clipped his sleeve. Reese didn't flinch; his intense focus never wavered.

John soldiered on.

Until he was hit.

The bullet punched him in the side. Hard. The shock of impact threw him off balance and caused Reese to stumble but somehow he managed to regain his equilibrium and keep his feet, keep his momentum surging forward despite the powerful blow.

Dimly, past the chatter of gunfire, he heard Harold shout his name and an inarticulate cry from Root but John didn't let it distract him.

The second slug thumped him square in the chest, spun him around and drove him down to one knee, all the air gone from his lungs. He was up again immediately, gasping for oxygen, the slug's brute force blunted by his vest but still a destructive, bone cracking blow. Thank God he'd taken the time to retrieve the protective gear from his locker during his brief visit at the stationhouse. It had been a last minute addition to his arsenal - he'd gone there to re-arm and re-stock his ammo after escaping from Dominic's crew, the ambitious young hood now in Fusco's custody along with Carl Elias.

John knew he'd been off his game lately, not wanting to wear the constraining vest, even when deep down he'd known he should not be going out without it. Ever. Bravado? Hubris? His damnable hero complex? A foreboding that his end was looming closer day by day and couldn't be avoided? A latent death wish? Thinking being a police officer, even a fake one, somehow imparted some kind of immunity? He hadn't stopped to examine the reasons for his uncharacteristic lack of caution. But this time he'd known he was walking into danger far beyond that faced by ordinary cops.

Tonight, those slabs of Kevlar saved his life. And that meant Harold's and Root's, too.

And maybe the fate of freedom in the world.

The wave of adrenaline surging through his bloodstream overrode the pain and propelled John back to his feet and moving forward. He knew his body was damaged - hell, he'd started this fight at far less than 100%. The wound inflicted days before up in the Catskills hadn't even begun to heal, and the amount of blood loss he'd sustained that frigid night had taken a serious toll on his strength. It had weakened him and then tonight Dominic's henchman had ratcheted up the damage by sticking that damned screwdriver into his shoulder, ripping out the stitches. His temporary patch of the wound with a self-clotting bandage from his first aid kit was no longer effective - John could feel warm blood once again leaking from his shoulder, staining the front of his shirt, adding the weakness of fresh blood loss to his exhaustion and new wounds. The buzz from the pills he'd swallowed after leaving the station house, uppers to counteract his lack of sleep and seriously depleted energy reserves, was wearing off fast.

The toll was building.

At the moment he was in that zone he'd found before in the midst of a fight, a place it seemed like time slowed down and everything was happening in slow motion. Reese was holding on grimly, face set, eyes scanning side to side in search of targets, making every shot count to maximum effect because he could feel the weapon in his hand growing uncomfortably light. That could only mean his ammo was seriously depleted, which meant Root would soon be running out, too.

But they were so close now - with a surge of hope he realized their destination was within reach. The car was just a few feet away.

And then suddenly John knew they were done. They wouldn't make it. Despite fending off Samaritan's attacks, despite all he'd done to even up the incredible odds against them, despite his experience and tactical skills and strategic capabilities combined with his ability to rethink a plan on the fly, despite his dogged determination, despite his bold plan and his resolute employment of it, despite his hard rock belief that somehow he'd find a way out of this jam because that was what he did - the jig was up.

Because the one variable he couldn't overcome was the arrival of more reinforcements between him and his destination.

Damn.

They were only a few last strides from Reese's car - a distance measured now in less yardage than needed for a Giant's first down - when a black van with ominously darkened windows suddenly came roaring up the side street. Tires screeched as the vehicle slewed sideways and blocked the sidewalk, cutting them off from reaching the car.

John didn't have time for despair - his mind scrolled frantically through the shrinking list of options and chose an alternative. Abandoning the hope of reaching his vehicle, he veered hard into the darkness between the buildings, searching for an exit, a hiding place, a chance to escape no matter how remote. Reese spun to cover Harold and Root as they followed his terse instructions, changing direction. He pointed them left and was about to empty his AK into the blockading black van when the driver's window rolled down, the side door slid open, and a frantic voice from within shouted, "Get in! Get in!"

Reese didn't hesitate. In that split second he couldn't identify the driver but that didn't matter now - he'd ride with the devil if that's what it took to get them safely away. They were out of options, and even if this was a bad choice, even if it wasn't the rescue it seemed, it was still a chance. Maybe they were jumping from the frying pan directly into the fire, but he couldn't imagine a viable alternative left out here on the street, exposed as they were.

The frying pan was definitely sizzling - they had to take their chances with the flames.

"Do it!" John shouted at Harold. "Get in the van. Go!"

Reese raised the submachine gun once more, aimed the weapon behind them and thumbed the setting over to continuous fire, emptying the weapon at the swarming Samaritan forces, now advancing en masse while Team Machine was caught in the open. Dark clad personnel dived for cover, their fire waning and what there was badly aimed - pockmarking the front of surrounding buildings, shattering windows, and boring holes in innocent automobiles.

The chaos opened a tiny window for the fleeing trio.

Out of the corner of his eye John observed Root push Harold into the unknown van's wide side door. He was right on their heels, racing the last steps toward safety when the third slug tore into him.

This time his leg was punched out from under him and Reese went down hard, tumbling to the unforgiving concrete sidewalk with bruising force. Hot flame raced across his thigh but he was so high on his wildly pumping adrenaline that he didn't feel the pain, only the heat of passage as the slug cut through the outer layers of his skin. With no time to get to his feet, he scrambled on hands and knees toward the van. The terrified faces of Harold and Root peered out of the back of the vehicle at him, urging him forward until reaching hands grabbed his outstretched arms, pulling him inside. He was only halfway in the door when Root screamed at the driver. "We've got him. Go!"

The van's tires squealed, pealing rubber as it roared away from the advancing attackers. Fishtailing, it careened off a parked car with the wail of screeching metal accompanying the thud of bullets.

Root's pronouncement had been a tad premature. The two of them did have hold of John, but not solidly. He could feel himself slipping out of their grasp, sliding out toward the pavement racing past below his feet. Out of desperation he let go of his gun, his hands scrambling for purchase on the van's interior. With just his fingertips he somehow latched onto the side of the seat anchor, clinging one-handed with desperation borne of the knowledge that to lose his grip was to tumble out and die, either from the fall or the still flying bullets. His shoulder screamed with pain because his one-handed grip was with his right arm, his injured and weakened limb.

Reese bit his lip and hung on grimly as the van slowed and then, somehow, Harold and Root found the strength to pull him far enough inside that he could tuck up his legs, clearing the doorway.

Root slammed the door shut. "He's in, he's in!" she shouted, and once again the driver wordlessly responded, pedal to the metal, the van racing away.

It was pitch dark inside the vehicle, all three of them staring at each other, unable to speak, breathing in wild ragged gasps as they fought to slow their racing heartbeats, stunned to find themselves still alive.

Harold turned immediately to Reese. He had seen John stagger, hit at least twice before going down hard from the third bullet, and he was desperately frightened of what he would find as he brushed aside his cohort's coat. His hands were trembling so badly he was barely able to unbutton the white shirt splashed with red.

Harold's sigh of relief was audible as moving the cloth revealed John's bulletproof vest, one that was dented and damaged but had quite effectively prevented any penetrating wounds to his torso. Yes, there was blood on his shirt, blood from his previous injury, Harold knew, and painful bruises would already be blossoming under the life-saving armor - he'd more than once observed what damage bullets did impacting a vest. And John was clutching his hip, the spot where he'd been hit by the third bullet, thin tendrils of blood seeping between his fingers, but a quick look showed Finch it was fortunately only a shallow wound.

Only a shallow wound… how Harold's world had changed that he could think such a thing!

"Is John okay?" The driver cast a quick glance into the back of the van. The voice emanating from the entirely black-clad figure was vaguely familiar to Finch, as if he'd heard it before, but he couldn't place it at the moment - feminine and high pitched with the effort to conceal her obvious dread at what the answer might be.

"He is…relatively… unharmed," Harold answered, noting the puzzled look that had suddenly appeared on Reese's face. "I don't know who you are, or why you came to our assistance, but we are deeply indebted to you. Your timing is impeccable."

The driver slowed the van, veered into an unlit parking lot in front of a closed up and boarded over storefront, leaned around the seat, and pulled the concealing black balaclava off her head. Waves of long red hair tumbled out from under the cap.

Harold was still stumped as to their rescuer's identity.

John was not. "Iris?" he gasped.

Harold knew only one woman by that name. "Dr. Campbell?" He turned to John, puzzled. "You're…"

"His shrink," Root filled in smugly.

"Ex-shrink," John insisted. "Current…" he searched for a word, faltered, settled finally on the totally inadequate choice, "…friend."

Root smirked. "Not your usual kind of friend, Lurch."

Harold raised a shocked eyebrow.

Reese ignored Root's jibe, turning instead to look at their rescuer. "Iris, these are my other… friends." John nodded at each. "Harold. And… Ms…."

"Just call me Root," she suggested, still smirking.

Reese was pushing himself up to sit more comfortably on the van's floor, Harold assisting until John's back rested against the seat, one hand holding his bullet-bruised side, the other his bullet-seared hip, his long legs filling the space between the seats. He wished he could inhale more deeply but the discomfort of cracked if not broken ribs was ramping up in direct counterpoint to the last of the adrenaline fading from his system, rapidly morphing into real agony. Breathing was a pain-fraught effort. "Iris. I told you to leave the city."

"You also told me you weren't sure you'd survive whatever it was that you were about to do. Did you really think I'd just leave? Knowing you were running straight into some trouble so terrible you thought I was in danger because of it?"

"You were. Are. You shouldn't be here…"

"Here is where I wanted to be. I had to know what was happening, John. I'm a seeker of answers. So I followed you."

"You should have done what I said," he snapped. He couldn't bear the thought of another woman dying because of him. That, he knew, would shatter him beyond repair.

"You really thought I would just walk away? Risk never knowing?"

"Sometimes it's better not to know," John suggested tersely.

"You know that's not true."

Reese's tone was harsh. "This was not a very smart thing for an intelligent woman to do."

"Just add it to the list of my indiscretions. I haven't done anything smart since I got involved with you. With The Man in the Suit."

"The Man in the Suit is nothing but an urban legend," Harold interjected hastily, "a myth created to ease the fears of frightened people desperate for a hero to save them from..."

"Cops don't create mythical heroes." Iris stated bluntly.

Finch attempted to intercede. "Now, Doctor, really…"

"Please… Harold. I know John is the Man in the Suit. I've known for months." She turned to the wounded man in the van's back seat. "At our first session, I told you I come from a family of police officers. One of them, my brother Michael, his life was saved a year ago by a mysterious man who appeared out of nowhere. The man kneecapped the drug dealers who'd ambushed and were trying to kill Michael and his partner, and then walked silently away, no name, no explanation. All my brother could say about his rescuer was that he was tall with dark hair graying at the temples and dressed totally incongruously in a suit. Silent as a ghost, with an expression so calm it was as if he were out for a stroll on the beach, not facing three armed thugs in a dark alley. No wasted motion, not a single wasted shot; in fact, he declared the man in the suit was the best marksman he'd ever seen. And I heard a few other stories, too, about the city's mystery man silently fighting bad guys, showing up out of nowhere. Preventing crimes, collaring perps, then disappearing back into the dark. I didn't believe it any more than I believed there were alligators in the sewers. And then one day you just walked into my office…"

"I didn't just walk in. Captain Moreno ordered me," Reese objected, scowling.

She smiled, "Whatever the reason, there you were, John, you and your hero complex, and I knew it was all true. No myth. No legend. Just an extraordinary man determined to save everyone."

"That transparent?" Reese asked quietly.

Iris shook her head. "It's my job to understand people, to figure out what makes them tick…"

"You never said anything…"

"Our sessions were about your thoughts, your motivations, your reality. You were there to talk, not me."

"And since?" John asked, still reeling.

"It never came up until tonight, when I realized you were doing something more than ordinarily dangerous, even for you. I couldn't let you go alone." She looked at the man and woman in the back seat. "I didn't know you had friends." She smiled. "You never spoke about them."

John was about to remind her that he'd told her he was good at keeping secrets when Root's voice brought them back to the moment. They had nearly forgotten she was present when she spoke up suddenly. "I really hate to interrupt this absolutely fascinating soap opera, but I think we really ought to scram before our 'friends' catch up with us," she suggested lightly. "After all, we do have a god to save."

Iris looked bewildered.

"It's a long story," said Harold, with a deep sigh. "But really, we should listen to Ms. Groves and remove ourselves to a safer location. John needs medical care and we need to regroup and redefine our mission." He looked down at the computer case, now bearing several bullet-inflicted dents, hoping the case was truly as impervious to damage as he'd been told. "If there's even anything left to save." His voice sounded almost mournful.

"That won't be easy, Harry," summed up Root as Iris put the van in drive and headed off into the teeming city.

Hoping they could save the machine.

And themselves.

-The End - er, actually, the beginning of Season 5

((Author's note: I know, I know, making Iris the "hero," well, it's not where I thought this story would go, but it's where my muse took me. But I just could never see John falling for someone so bland, so I figure there has to be some hidden depths to her… so this is where canon took me.))

8


End file.
